


The Thing with Feathers

by Niki



Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But It Might Help in Dealing With Them, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Love Does Not Cure Mental Illnesses, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22744261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niki/pseuds/Niki
Summary: What would it take for Tony to finally give up hope?Canon divergence with my own version of Rota, Spain.
Relationships: Anthony DiNozzo/Jethro Gibbs
Comments: 81
Kudos: 315





	1. in the chillest land

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Includes a depressed person considering suicide as a life choice. If this is triggering to you, please don't read further. If you struggle with similar thoughts yourself, there is help out there. If you don't have anyone else to ask, contact me, and I'll help you find help. I'm basing a lot of this on my own experiences with nearly life long depression. Your experiences might be different, but both our experiences are equally valid. (I am also of course taking some artistic liberties.)
> 
> Title and chapter titles are from a poem by Emily Dickinson.
> 
> Working title of this story is “Tony is a depressed BAMF”, take that as you will. 
> 
> Updates will not be very frequent, I'm afraid, but I wanted to get something posted for the International Fan Works Day 2020!

Tony DiNozzo woke up, and wished he hadn't. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the many mornings when he hadn't wanted to leave the warm bed for work. Hangovers, short nights, bedmates, bad bosses, lousy hours, crooked co-workers. But never before was it because he just saw no point for it. 

No point getting up, going to work, going through the motions, pretending he was still making a difference, doing something worthwhile. Pretending he was a member of a team. 

Going on as if anyone cared that he did. 

Habit got him up, routine got him dressed, custom made sure he had some coffee. He was at work on time. Yay. 

*

The day wasn't the worst, he had his own things to do, forms to fill, and didn't need to interact too much. Routine, routine, routine. Was it killing him, or keeping him alive? Was there a difference, at this point?

A sound drew him out of his reverie. McGee was jumping up from his chair to switch on the plasma for... news?

“Oh my God,” he said, when he realised what was going on. 

“That is more than one bomb,” Ziva said, commenting on the description on the screen.

“Do they know about casualties?” Tony asked, knowing his voice sounded strange.

“Do you know someone there personally?” Tony couldn't tell if Ziva meant to sound malicious, to imply... what? He slept around? He would only care if there was someone he knew? 

“That was supposed to be my team,” he said, quietly, distractedly, looking at the fiery remains of the NCIS office in Rota, Spain. “Shepard offered me the lead first.”

“Are you sleeping with her?” McGee's blurted comment was totally spontaneous at least, not a calculated barb like Ziva's. Still...

“Wow. That really is what you think of me,” he said, knowing he should have made it into a joke, but completely lacking the will to offer the other man the excuse, the escape. 

“And me, Agent McGee,” said a cold voice from somewhere behind them. 

Shepard spared no further attention on McGee though, speaking directly to Tony. 

“I need you down there,” she said simply. 

Tony took a look around the bullpen, McGee's pale, sweaty face, Ziva's impassive one. Gibbs, still looking at the screen, having not said a word during any of it. But why would Tony expect anything else? He met Shepard's gaze. “Yes, ma'am.”

*

Tony had often idly wondered where people in the movies got the cardboard boxes they were always seen packing their desks into when fired. He got his from Shepard's secretary. Did she have a stash somewhere? He almost wanted to know. 

He didn't meet anyone's eyes as he methodically stored his professional life in the building into the box. No one spoke, but he could feel Gibbs's eyes on him, Hey, something made Gibbs actually look at him, another yay.

He stood up with the box, and made to leave. 

“That is it? You are going to leave without a word? As if you were not leaving your team behind?”

“What team would that be, Agent David? I don't think I've been part of a team for a long time now.”

With that he left, depositing his box into a trash can on his way out.

*

Gibbs looked at his senior field agent emptying his desk with a blank expression. They matched in that regard. Nothing showed on the younger man's usually so animated face. No hint of regret, or grief. 

Soon he would open the lowest desk drawer. Gibbs didn't know if he wanted Tony to take them with him, or leave them, because at least that would mean he would come back for them at some point.

Tony never even glanced at the drawer. Not a second's hesitation. Just the methodical emptying of everything that was his, personally. 

And then he dumped them all into garbage. 

Gibbs looked at the Mighty Mouse stapler on top, then met McGee's eyes. The younger man opened his mouth as if to say something, but Gibbs looked away, and no sound followed. 

Tony left the medals. 

*

The next day the stapler was on Gibbs's desk, and no one ever said a word about it.


	2. tune without words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We'll be doing some time hopping in this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented with encouragement. It does help. It's horrible to hear so many of you are also struggling but it's also good to be able to talk about it. I hope everyone is taking care of themselves!

“What’s the problem, McGee?”

The bite in Gibbs's voice made McGee swallow, and he hated to admit it but...

“I don't know how to do it, boss.”

“You don't _know_? You were Tony's SFA, didn’t you fill these forms?”

Tony. Always _Tony_ , now, not DiNozzo, but they didn’t mention that, or the stapler, or the fact Gibbs never, ever smiled anymore. It’s funny, McGee would have sworn he never did, before, but the difference was telling.

“I... thought he was pushing his own jobs at me. Boss.”

“Uh-huh. And when I gave them to you?”

“Of course I’ll do them, Boss!”

Gibbs didn’t even need to say it, or look at him in a meaningful way, for McGee to realise what he’d admitted.

*

Abby was raging, again, about Tony, his betrayal, abandonment, chucking his team – family – away, and Jimmy couldn't deal with, not anymore, not constantly, and he scoffed aloud. He couldn't help, didn’t even try to help it. And then she whirled to face him, to hurl her poison at him.

“What's that supposed to mean, autopsy gremlin?”

“Tony didn't leave this team behind. Your precious team pushed him out! And you were as bad as the three upstairs! You made him be Gibbs for you then blamed him for trying!”

“That’s hardly fair...” Doctor Mallard started to say but Jimmy was high on adrenaline now and cut him off.

“And you were no help! When he needed your help and support trying to lead this team, to keep it together you were so wrapped up in your own pain you completely froze him out! My God, you blamed him for trying to keep it together! For doing his job! I don't blame him for going! I only wish he had gotten out sooner!”

He was shaking by the time he was done, shaking and sweating and he couldn’t believe what he was doing.

“Excuse me,” he said, manners a reflex by now, and stormed – very quietly – out of the lab.

He stood in the corridor, not knowing what to do, whether he still had a job, when Doctor Mallard followed him out. He froze, but the old man put a hand on his shoulder, like a benediction, and there was only regret on his face now.

“We needed to hear that, lad.”

Jimmy shot a glance towards the lab, and Ducky followed the direction of his eyes.

“Some will need to have it repeated, no doubt,” he said, sadly. “Have you heard from Anthony?”

Emboldened by his eruption, and this unexpected understanding, Jimmy met his gaze.

“With all due respect, Doctor, do you think I would tell you?”

*

“Do you know why he stayed, even after I offered him his own team?”

Gibbs didn’t say a word, just stood almost at attention by her desk.

“I knew he was more than capable, having seen him try to keep your train wreck of a team intact against their own stiff opposition. It was past time he moved on, and I thought the disrespect and hostility with which you all – all – treated him would encourage him to take the opportunity.”

Still nothing, no expression on his face.

“He was still covering for you. Knew you still weren’t hundred percent. His loyalty is his best quality. I should thank you for throwing it in his face so many times. Maybe now someone else can benefit from it.”

Gibbs didn’t storm out. For the first time Shepard had known him, it felt like a retreat.

*

Tony looked... good. His hair was longer, but he was not tanned, as if Spain's sun had not touched him over the weeks he’d already been there. His suit was new, some light material – linen, maybe. It was hard to tell on the screen. He had obviously lost some weight but it did not detract form his looks.

He looked absolutely serious. Not emotionless... yet all business. No pleasure or recognition on his face for anyone in MTAC. Shepard was talking to him, Gibbs was silent but he had to be visible to Tony. McGee was to the side but he had seen Tony take them all in when the feed became live.

It was a simple status check, pooling of resources. The MCRT wasn't officially signed to the case, but Gibbs had shoehorned them in, and McGee had spent many hours digging through harder to reach (well, hack) places to gather what info he could. Maybe it was amends, he didn’t even know himself. But he was content to wait in silence for a chance to share all they’d discovered with Tony.

“Agent McGee had something to add,” Shepard said finally, and motioned for him to step forward.

“Hi, Tony,” he said, but only got a nod in turn. No smile, not even a softening in his eyes. 

But it’s always hard to tell on a screen.

“I'll send you the files, too, but I just wanted to go over some main points...” 

Tony picked up a pen, and looked at him... He wouldn’t say expectantly, unfortunately.

He started rattling off points, then looked up and realised Tony wasn't taking notes.

“Do you need me to slow down?” It was an honest question, not a dig, but he could see Tony’s face turn a shade icier.

“Just waiting for you to say something we don’t already know, Agent McGee.”

The worst part, the absolute worst part, was the fact that that was absolutely not a dig. Just a matter of fact recounting of a simple truth.

*

“He is selling his apartment,” Ziva reported the day after Tony left. “Everything he owns was packed into storage. Everything. He did not even pack a suitcase.”

This baffled her. Tony had always put so much meaning in the material. In pretty clothes, cars, he wanted to own his own physical copies of movies, he put so much meaning to gifts, whether given to others or himself. He hoarded Gibbs's unwanted medals, he used office supplies that looked like toys. (She did not glance at Gibbs's desk, at the stapler that was now gracing his desk.) To walk out of his life and past like a spy... She had not thought Tony would exist without his material possessions, would lack a key part of his personality. 

Maybe he did.

Maybe that other team – or what remained of it – would be only getting a shell. 

(But who had carved the husk empty?)

*

Gibbs woke up, and almost wished he hadn't. 

He wanted to be angry. He had been angry. But Ducky had given him a second hand lecture and he had started to notice things. Started to create a picture of what it had been like, for Tony, to keep his team and his job for him, safe, functional, together. Of how thankless it had been. The lack of respect he had to contend with. 

How Gibbs himself had just made it worse with his own actions – and inactions. And yet Tony had stayed. His loyal shadow.

Until he wasn’t there, and Gibbs finally realised the difference it had made, every day, every way. How much more than his job Tony had always done, how he had managed to keep the team not just functioning, but alive in ways it wasn’t anymore. No-one laughed. No-one smiled. No-one deflected Gibbs's anger, or kept the worst idiots from his way. No-one picked the slack with the tedious, constant paperwork. 

No-one reminded Gibbs he was human.

He was used to loss. He had just had to come to terms with losing his family again. And Tony wasn't dead.

Yet getting up from this sofa and meeting yet another endless day without Tony's presence felt, for just a second, intolerable.

It was the press on his bladder that got him up. And it was sheer damn stubbornness that got him to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll get back to Tony in the next one, and back to the day he left.


	3. on the strangest sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We'll meet the team left at Rota, lots of OCs coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who comments and leaves kudos! It truly helps me keep up with the story because it's a bit rough to write sometimes.

A quick stop at his apartment was all Tony needed. He considered packing but suddenly realized he didn’t want to take as much as a pair of socks with him from this life. He made a few calls, arranged for a firm to come pack it all up – he was clear-headed enough to realize he might feel differently in the future – and to put the place on market. The only thing he took with him were documents – his passport, birth certificate, a few others, but nothing else. He could pick up the essentials at the airport. If they didn’t carry his usual brands, even better. Right now even the thought of the smell of his aftershave made him feel sick to his stomach.

Without a last look around he went out, pulling the door closed behind him. Even the finality of that did not offer solace.

*

Tony purchased a carry on suitcase at the airport because it would cause too many questions to arrive without luggage. By the end of his wait it was filled with the bare essentials he could bother to buy. Hygiene products, razor, a change of underwear. A white dress shirt and a black tie. With his dark suit he'd look like a Man in Black and the idea almost made him smile, which spurred him through buying sunglasses. 

He hoped he had thanked all the sales people. He'd been so on autopilot he couldn't even remember.

He eyed the electronics store but figured there was no point in buying things he'd need adapters for at the other end anyway. 

He looked at the people around him, people on business, on vacation, and felt like a fraud. Felt like a zombie pretending to be human. Even the sounds felt dulled.

He was at his gate as soon as it was announced, pretending to read a glossy magazine for over an hour. 

Maybe he had smiled at someone, because he had a window seat. The airport looked small from the window, the city unreal. He reminded himself he was leaving home and everything familiar behind for God knows how long, and felt... nothing. The same emptiness he woke up with. Not even relief. 

He slept through the whole flight.

*

Tony exited the passport control and spotted a placard with his name on it. It was held by a man in a dark suit, in his thirties, with brown hair and mustache. The man smiled when Tony stopped in front of him and offered his hand.

“Special Agent DiNozzo? I'm Special Agent MacCreek.”

Paul MacCreek, Tony remembered from the dossier Shepard had had him read before he left her office. They shook hands.

“This way, sir.” 

Tony opened his mouth to tell him to stow the honorific, then closed it. That was Gibbs's stance. He was not Gibbs, had only gotten crap from trying to be Gibbs, and he was not here to make friends, he was here to solve a case and do damage control. Some distance between him and the remains of the group was just fine.

“How are you holding up?” Tony asked after MacCreek had maneuvered his way out of the airport lot.

“Me? I'm fine. I wasn't there. I was interviewing a witness, and didn't get back until the fire was already in control.”

“But they're your team mates. Your workplace.”

“I mean, I'm pissed as hell. Sorry, sir. But I'm not the one...”

“Yeah. How are Agents Smiley and West?”

“Still in the hospital. Nothing life-threatening. Wrigley is still the only casualty.”

“Luck or planning, do you think?”

“Planning, I'd say, sir. I've seen the tapes. The light show was impressive but either set by idiots, or then meant more for show than destruction. Maybe Wrigley's death was unintended. I don't know.”

“Status of the investigation?” 

“Non-existent. Waiting for, well, you.”

“Do we have an interim office?”

“Yeah, in the base. We're heading there now.”

“You might need to stop at an electronics store, I need a phone.”

“I requisitioned new gear this morning, added a phone and laptop for you too, sir.”

“Who delivers your gear here?”

“The QM of the base, we're not like you guys in Washington, we're just the one team. We even loan the pathologist from the Spanish.”

“But they're letting you deal with the investigation?”

“Both the Navies deal with their own shit. I mean, the whole base is commanded by the Spanish Vice Admiral, but our side is our guys. If it turns out to be an external threat, then it's the Spanish. But it's very much looking like an inside job right now and no side is happy about that. There was even talk of outside investigation but I guess Director Shepard prevented that SNAFU.”

“How far are we from the base?”

“About 40 kilometers. That's about 25 miles.”

“I know.”

“Good, some of our people take a while to get used to Europe.”

“Not in service, then.”

“Obviously.”

Tony looked out of the window without taking in anything but the light. MacCreek had to be hating his dark suit. Tony had changed into the new shirt and tie before they landed, and felt marginally better than he might have after traveling and sleeping in his suit. 

The security at the gates seemed more than just a formality, even though MacCreek had to be familiar. Tony wondered if someone suspected the inside job might be as close to home as the team itself. Well. That's why he was there.

He also wondered how his presence would be received. He was very decidedly there to lead the team, which already had a leader, albeit in the hospital at the moment. 

They passed a US flag, half mast. MacCreek nodded towards it. 

“That's not usually allowed. Spanish base, after all. But they gave us permission to honor the Wrig.”

Tony just nodded, not sure if the other man saw. What could he say? He knew how hard it was to lose a team mate, and how little anyone's words mattered. 

There was a guard on the door of the building, but he only nodded to MacCreek as they walked in. 

“Good guys. Only let our team or someone with our team in. So far, that has been... me.”

The office was Spartan. A few desks, mismatched chairs, disconnected computers. 

MacCreek opened a drawer and took out a phone and a re-charger and handed them to Tony.

“The phone number is written at the back. All the other team phones are saved in the system under everyone's name, although Westie hasn't got hers yet. Smiley was allowed his. For now, that's your personal phone too. We need to keep a tight ship right now. Sir.”

“Understood. A laptop?”

“Here. And if you'd sign these, I'll get them back to the quartermaster. Consider me your acting SFA at least for now, for the lack of other options. I'll deal with the superfluous paperwork.”

“What were you working on when the... incident happened?”

“I downloaded all the files on the laptop for you.”

Tony looked at him, raising an impressed eyebrow. 

MacCreek shrugged. “I've had time, waiting for you. Not allowed to do much else.”

Tony nodded. “We'll get to work right away then. But first, the hospital.”

MacCreek shot him a quick one-sided smile. His gesture was appreciated. Tony wondered if that meant Agent West wasn't a very touchy-feely leader, or if they hadn't expected much from the new guy.

Zombie pretending to be human he might be, but if Tony DiNozzo was something, he was good at pretending.

*

Shirley Smiley was almost forty, his curly hair still uneven from where almost half of it had burned off. His face only had first degree burns though, looking like sunburn.

“Westie put down the flames in my hair,” he said. “It was only after I realized she was hurt worse. Her arm... they do say they can save it, Cree?”

“Yes, they are convinced,” MacCreek said, sounding like he was repeating himself, but content to do so. 

“I can get up soon, they said. My lungs are clear, and my ears have stopped ringing.”

“That's good. But take your time,” Tony said. 

Samantha West, Special Agent in charge, was burnt worse. Her left arm had been injured by flying debris – the explosions themselves had taken place further away. Her hair, which she obviously had worn down at the time, was singed at the ends. She was still coughing occasionally from the smoke inhalation. 

“Don't talk more than you need to.”

She seemed to glare at Tony, but maybe that was just the bandage pressing her eye from where it covered her temple. Well, she was a woman whose job was taken over by a man. Tony didn't need to search far for reasons for the (possible) glare.

How directly could he reassure her he was just there to hold her team temporarily? 

_“I'm very good at stepping down when I'm no longer needed”_ sounded a bit self-pitying, if you knew his circumstances, and patronizing if you didn't. 

“I am going to need your perspective on this one, so concentrate on getting better for now. We'll get the pissing contest out of the way once you're up,” he said, drenching up the old DiNozzo grin from somewhere, and she even laughed a little. Good. 

It might have been Tony's imagination, but MacCreek seemed lighter when they exited the hospital building after a quick word with the attending doc.

“Where are you staying?” he asked, almost smiling.

“I don't know yet, I'm hoping you can recommend a decent hotel here.”

“This is a tourist town, we got plenty.”

He drove Tony to a hotel a little outside the base, maybe a five minute drive. 

“No restaurant, but that should keep it quieter. You can eat at the base. I'll come get you in the morning?”

“Eight o'clock. Do I get a car from the QM, or private rental?”

“I'll take care of it. Any wishes?”

Before, Tony would have suggested a Ferrari, preferably the 308GTS. Zombie Tony felt no urge to do so. 

“I'll leave the details to you. Good night.”

*

The room... looked like a hotel room. A bed, a desk, a dresser. En suite with a shower. Home sweet home. 

He checked the time. Too late probably to go searching for clothes. He'd have to do something about food though. He had no appetite, but the hunger had been nudging him for hours now to put something inside him. He had to stay functional. Well, the reception could answer both of his questions.

*

It was almost exactly eight o'clock when MacCreek arrived. Tony was waiting for him in front of the hotel, with the laptop under his arm.

“I'll need to make time for some shopping today,” he said after perfunctory greetings. “But let's start at the office. I read through the files last night.”

“Wait, all the files? I had prepared a presentation.”

“Jet lag,” Tony said, shrugging. Or possibly not giving a damn about sleeping, but jet lag was a realistic enough for a reason.

“Oh yeah. Hey, do you know the trick of walking on a carpet with your bare feet to ground yourself?”

“I've seen Die Hard, yes.”

Tony's tone killed the conversation, and he was almost sorry about it. Maybe, just for a second, he could pretend to care, to be human. To talk action movies with another guy.

But there were murderers to catch. And he only had so much energy to put into pretending. 

“I would like to go over some of the points with you though...”

*

A week later Tony was still living off his suitcase, but at least he had three suits to choose from, a leather laptop case, and a stash of snacks in his room for when he had no energy to eat out. Ramen, instant coffee, water heater. 

His phone still only had the numbers of his team, his laptop was used solely for work, and as soon as he got his car, his nights were spent almost exclusively at the base. 

There was work to be done, and it was easier to concentrate during the night when he was alone. Not that MacCreek or Smiley were too chatty once they realized their new boss preferred to work in silence.

Inertia, Tony decided. It was inertia that had kept him alive in the States. Change of address didn’t cure him magically of his depression, but it did change the survival mechanism.

Challenge.

As long as there was work to do, a case to solve, he was okay. No need to be Tony, here. No one knew Tony. They knew Special Agent DiNozzo, and he could be Special Agent DiNozzo for them. 

At least until the job was done.


	4. never asked a crumb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone reading, leaving kudos, and commenting!

Gibbs was tired of mourning. Sometimes it felt like he'd spent his life mourning. First for his mom, then for his girls, then all those broken marriages, and the amnesia had brought the grief for his family back again. Not that it ever left, not for a day, but it had not been as acute for years.

And now...

“Dammit, he's not even dead!” he yelled, wishing he could hurl something against a wall, just to see it break.

“You still lost him,” Ducky said.

Gibbs twirled around, aghast that he hadn't noticed the older man there.

His face was too understanding, too sympathetic, and the urge to throw things was strengthened.

Not that Ducky wasn't right. Gibbs mourned the loss just as deeply as the other losses because while alive, Tony was still as gone. 

“But you may have a chance for this not to be final,” Ducky was saying, and for a moment Gibbs was sure he'd spoken aloud. 

“You didn't see him,” Gibbs said. “He's not planning to come back.”

“Not to work, maybe.”

“No maybe. You don't know what he had to go through.” Nor did Gibbs, to be honest, not until he stopped being so goddamn blind, but even he could only guess at the depth of it.

“Not to work, then. But that does not mean you might not get him back.”

Get him back. What did that even mean? They could be colleagues again? Friends?

Had they ever been friends? For real? Had Gibbs ever told Tony how much he and his support meant? His company? His chatter sometimes the only sound keeping the darkness at bay?

Tony was family. But one father had already disowned him.

Everything within Gibbs rebelled at the comparison. Maybe that should be enough of a clue as to what he really wanted. 

He wanted to get Tony back. For himself.

“I'm not sure that's possible, Duck,” was the only thing he said, turning to stare at the wall again.

“Then you've already given up, and that's not like you.”

*

Gibbs couldn't call, even if finding out Tony's new phone number would be trivial, him being an official contact. Besides, Tony probably had their numbers blocked. And e-mails. 

For a crazy second Gibbs considered flowers. 

But Tony wasn't an ex-wife. Not that he'd ever gone through even this much trouble to get any of them back.

In the end, he wrote a post card, and put it in an envelope. Less than a letter, but more than an e-mail. Maybe Tony would recognize his handwriting and burn it unread.

But he had asked himself what he would do to get Tony back, and the answer had scared him.

*

_You know my stance on apologies.  
And when someone screws up this bad,  
would any apology even be enough?  
~~I'm willing to offer you as many as  
you can listen to.~~ _

_Jethro Gibbs_


	5. Hope is the thing with feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is doing well! I'm sorry for the long break. I'm healthy (well I mean I don't have corona), socially distancing at home, and you'd think there'd be time to do a lot of things... Doesn't really work like that. This is a hard story to be working on right now. So it's going to be a bit lighter than I had planned. I meant to drag the angst longer but fuck it. Tony deserves some hope, just as we do. (My country had domestic travel restrictions lifted today!) 
> 
> Stay healthy, save lives by staying home, or working on one of the essential fields. We're all heroes right now. (Also let's keep demanding better pay and working conditions for those essential workers, as well as support for those who find themselves without income at the moment.)

_“You know my stance on apologies.  
And when someone screws up this bad,  
would any apology even be enough?  
~~I'm willing to offer you as many as  
you can listen to.~~_

_Jethro Gibbs”_

Tony stared at the card in his hand. The envelope had been handed to him with the day's mail, and even if the writing of the address had seemed familiar, this was the last thing he had expected.

The text was stark, written with a ballpoint pen. And Gibbs had signed his full name. What did it mean? The card was a standard tourist fare of Washington's sights. What did any of it mean?

He must have stared the piece of cardboard for minutes, because he noticed MacCreek staring at him. Had he been open to it at all, the younger man would obviously had made a joke about it. But Special Agent Tony DiNozzo was known at Rota for his no-nonsense commitment to work and only work. 

He pushed the card into one of the drawers of the desk and tried to concentrate on the rest of the mail, of the reports of the yesterday's interviews, on Smiley's surely legal research results. 

It was impossible to forget the post card though. No matter what he did, it popped up all the time. He made up his mind to reply something, anything. 

But somehow he never got around to it. He couldn't do it at work, but he was always at work. When he made his way back to the hotel it was to sleep like the dead for a few hours then repeat the day, again and again. 

He did not expect the team to show up at work during the weekend unless they had another active case on top of the bombing investigation, but he was there every day himself. Why not? What else was there? 

But it nagged at him, when he tried to fall asleep, when he tried to come up with yet another angle for the case. 

It was in the middle of the night two weeks later when he finally gathered enough energy? Will? Guts? to reply. He had no cards, so he opened his work e-mail, and started a message to a recipient he had hoped to never type again.

*

Gibbs wasn't even expecting anything in reply anytime soon. First there was the international mail. Then there was the possibility Tony would never read it. Or if he did, he tore it after reading. 

Yet every morning he checked his mail with extra care, both at work and at home. And pretended he wasn't disappointed when there was nothing. 

Why had he chosen that particular card? Would Tony think he was trying to needle him to come back to work there? Would he think it was a ploy? An underhanded attempt to make him homesick? 

That Thursday was no different. No mail at home, and nothing but work related things at work. With a resigned sigh, albeit internal, Gibbs switched on his computer to read his e-mails before getting started with the day.

And there it was. An e-mail. Tony.dinozzo@ncis.gov Perverse as it was, now that the reply was here, he was afraid to click on it. What was the worst thing that it could say? The worst would have been not getting a reply at all, surely. No matter how angry, or how dismissive, or how cruel Tony would be, it was still a reply. And that meant he still held a smidgen of care for him. 

The e-mail was just a single line. 

_“I don't know._

_Tony”_

He signed it “Tony.” He signed it with just his name. He did not write that e-mail as his ex-SFA, the current acting leader of the MCRT in Spain. He wrote back as Tony. 

Gibbs had to close his eyes because someone seemed to be pumping in some kind of irritating gas through the air conditioning. 

He could stop the tears but not the smile that came to his lips. Small and tentative, just as this renewed contact, but still a real smile when he thought his mouth had forgotten how to achieve one.

*

_“I am sorry, you know. Both formally, for what was done to you at work. No, goddammit, what I did, and allowed to happen, at work. And sorry as a friend. A sorry excuse for a friend._

_Jethro”_

Had the man been drunk when he wrote that? Since when did Gibbs express himself like that?

Jethro. He signed it as Jethro. Trying to reply to Tony's attempt to keep the work out of it? He had spent way too much time considering his reply, his form of address, his signature. And Gibbs had gotten that. Jethro. 

He wasn't sure he could forgive Gibbs. 

But maybe he could forgive Jethro. 

*

_“And maybe one day I'll be able to accept, and forgive._

_Tony”_

*

Maybe one day he would believe it, Gibbs translated, trying to keep the blossoming hope tamped down. 

_“I'll keep asking then. Unless you ask me to stop.”_

*

Tony almost smiled at that. He looked up to see MacCreek and Smiley walk in to the office, mid-conversation.

“...and he said, of course he said, is it Shirley like Temple, and I said...”

“No, it's Shirley as in 'surely legal search',” Tony dead-panned.

The two agents froze on the spot with matching incredulous looks on their faces, and Tony wondered if that was really the first joke he had ever made in their hearing. Huh. It was probably the first joke he had made in months, period. 

MacCreek was the first to unfreeze, and he burst into laughter. Smiley joined in soon.

“That's a good one, sir. Much better than mine. I'll start using that.”

Tony gave them a smile, let them sit down, and bit his tongue not to ask. 

“Nothing new,” MacCreek reported, even unprompted. “We'll type a report, but it'll be a waste of time both for us and you, sir.”

“Then you better make it a triple,” Tony said, “so that I can cc the base commander in too.”

Laughter in the office made it seem so much less stark. Even the sun seemed a little brighter.

If a change of scenery had not cured his depression – and he knew perfectly well it was depression, it was one of the things they were taught to keep an eye for, in their fellow agents, in suspects, in victims – neither did the olive branch form his past. 

But maybe all he had ever needed was a reason to fight. 

And maybe he had just been handed that in the form of words of reconciliation from a man not known for using his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gibbs might appear OOC for some, but I put a lot of thought into this, and talked with my beta. Gibbs has had to be a different guy in his relationships than at work... at some point at least. And after being faced with the worst case scenario (losing Tony) he has to put all that focus his cases get on what would be best for a person he cares about.
> 
> Just a warning, things will get darker again, it won't all be sunshine and roses even with this renewed contact.


	6. and never stops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: discussion on suicidal ideation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is doing well! Thank you so much for everyone who reads, comments, or leaves kudos - you make this easier. (I mean both writing and existing in these turbulent times!)

Tony's strange, hopeful mood lasted until the evening. Then, inevitably, his mood darkened again, and the doubts set in.

What was Gibbs playing? Or was it even Gibbs? It would be easy for McGee to gain access to his e-mail. Maybe they were laughing at him with Ziva right now. How Tony was so desperate for attention he'd believe anything, even this wildly out of character stuff.

Would Gibbs really deign to appear as vulnerable as he supposedly was now? Was the thing with names just another cruel joke?

After all, it was not the first time Gibbs had given him validation only for him to turn around and realize it was a joke. Gibbs – if it was Gibbs even – had to be playing a game here. Gibbs only ever used words in interrogation. And he was a master interrogator, always getting what he wanted. 

So what did Gibbs want now?

It made no sense Tony forgiving him would be so important to him, unless it was for a reason. And what was that reason? To play him for a fool? To get him to do something for him, for them? To punish him for the abandonment of his post?

The doubts kept Tony awake, and he got even less sleep that usual. When he did fall asleep, his dreams were fragmented and he kept waking up, thinking he was meant to be somewhere, doing something.

He gave up the effort at six. The mere idea of food turned his stomach, and coffee could be got in the office – MacCreek had commandeered a coffee maker from somewhere, and it was always kept in readiness. 

He dressed on autopilot, putting on his sunglasses without caring whether it was sunny or not. They helped, hiding the signs of his tiredness from the world, and giving him an illusion of distance. Too bad he couldn't wear them in the office.

No one else was around yet but the guard at the door was too used to Tony's obsessive hours and only nodded in greeting. 

Tony made the coffee, still on autopilot, mind busy trying to change tracks into work. No mail yet, and he had already read all the reports from yesterday. Tony booted up his computer to check the e-mails too, purely on instinct.

Another e-mail from Gibbs.

_“I meant what I said, I will keep asking. Until you tell me to stop._

_Forgive me._

_Jethro”_

Tony wanted to believe in that so bad, believe the tenacity was real, was honest, but the doubts of the night before would not leave him. 

He clicked on the next e-mail. It was from the base psychologist, reminding him to send his team in as soon as possible. The tone was still polite, but turning a little impatient as Smiley had been back at work for more than a while now after his hospital stay. 

As a leader he understood this much better than when it concerned him. This wasn't futile bureaucracy designed to make an agent's life harder. This was concern for their well-being and fitness – not just because unfit agents jeopardized cases, but because people didn't need to suffer needlessly. There was help available. 

There was help available.

_There was help available._

Tony looked at the e-mail from Gibbs again. He wanted to believe in it. Maybe, if Gibbs really kept it up...

Tony knew he wasn't as efficient a worker as he could be. Not as he was, not as Zombie Tony. True, he spent most of his time in the office, but as hard as it was sometimes to concentrate on the simplest of tasks, he knew he needed those hours to accomplish what he'd normally manage in fraction of the time. 

If he was honest with himself, he knew the current state couldn't go on forever either. The lack of sleep and proper food would make him physically ill on top of everything else. Then he literally wouldn't be able to keep going as he had been, and if he couldn't do that, if he had to spend more time inside his head...

Well. He hadn't been actively trying to kill himself. But he had not really seen a future for himself after his time in Rota was done. 

But if he had something in the States to go back to... even if it was just a maybe...

He wasn't and hadn't ever been actively suicidal. Maybe it was possible to stop being passively suicidal too. But he couldn't do that alone, not anymore.

With visibly shaking hands he opened the second e-mail again, and resolutely pressed “reply. 

Then he reconsidered. Not on file. He couldn't do this in writing. It was almost eight o'clock. The other two would walk in in an hour. The psychologist might already be in. 

Worth a shot. 

*

“You've been so alone with this,” she said, and Tony felt like crying. Yes. He'd been alone with all his problems, all his issues, all his life. Even when he'd occasionally believed he wasn't. 

It felt horrible to ask for help.

It also felt incredible to ask for help.

To have someone validate his feelings, his experiences, his struggles. For someone to tell him there was something indeed wrong, but something that could be helped with. Not telling him to man up, stop crying, be a big boy, never have doubts. 

“I understand you are worried about confidentiality, I do. I can say all my files are private, and no one has any right to them, and the same goes to the doctor. But I know you federal types, trust me, I do. So I'm going to give you the number of a Spanish colleague, who is going to find you a doctor to prescribe you antidepressants.”

“But...”

“No buts. Me? I'd want you on a long sick leave far away from work but I see that is not an option right now. But you do need help. You have a medical issue – your brain chemistry is so unbalanced you need chemical assistance, for now. Think of it like using crutches. They're not a permanent aid, just there to lighten the load for your broken foot so that it has time to get better.”

“But I need to be able to work.”

“And you will, even better than now. I can almost promise you that.”

“But will I still be able to carry a gun? Isn't medication like that...”

“No. They won't impair your driving, they wouldn't stop you from doing your job. It wouldn't even matter if you were _applying_ to your current job. Well, at least officially,” she added, with scrupulous honesty. That made it easier for Tony to trust her but still...

“That sounds too good to be true.”

“I'm not saying they come without side effects. But to be honest, sleeping more than usual would not be a bad thing for you, and would you even notice if your libido got even lower? And gaining weight would also be a bonus at this point. My professional opinion is that the pros outweigh the cons ten to none. But it is up to you. All I can say is... those little white crutches might make you feel more like your old self sooner than therapy can. You _will_ need talk therapy too, but that is not a fast cure. The pills are not a cure at all. But they might make it possible for you to get there.”

*

Tony left, feeling scrubbed raw. He knew he'd pushed her whole day out of schedule, but she had insisted he tell her everything and... everything was a lot. He hadn't even gotten into his past that much, but she must have inferred a lot more than he'd actually said from the fact he was completely without a safety net of people in his life. 

Maybe. Gibbs might be there after all, or again, but that was tentative at best and suspicious at worst.

He stared at the wall where he stood. He couldn't remember the last time he had wanted to smile, he wasn't sure his face remembered how. He kept wanting to cry when he wasn't feeling completely numb. Numbness had gotten him out of his old life and kept him existing in the new one. 

But he was tired of existing.

He was in Spain. _Spain_ , and hadn't ever even looked at a beach. Hadn't sampled the local foods or wines... Wines.

No alcohol with antidepressants. 

He resolved to go out for dinner in the evening, and have a bottle.

*

Of course, when the evening arrived, he had no energy left. And even dining alone would require an effort to be sociable to the world at large. He had used all the social-ness he had just on the guys in the office, even though he had sent them to do interviews he would normally have done himself. 

It was a big base, and someone, somewhere – maybe many someones if their investigation was heading to a right direction – knew what had happened with the bombs. 

He sometimes thought his reading of the situation was affected by his own apathetic numbness, a cynicism that had started to color all of his interactions with people. But if so, it was affecting his agents as well, and a certain level of cynicism was needed to be a good investigator anyway.

So Tony retreated into his hotel room, drained and with mixed feelings about his decision to seek help. He knew, had the psychologist left it for him to call the Spanish doctor, he might never have managed to do that. But in the end she had called herself, just to make the next step as effortless as she could. 

For the first time since he'd arrived to Spain, Tony opened the laptop for a purely personal reason. Even if he used his work e-mail for it.

_“I'm not asking you to stop. I think I'm asking you to go on. I think I need you to.”_

No signature, just that. It was showing his vulnerable underbelly, exposing himself to more possible pain, showing his need for something, for this. But what did it matter? If it was all a lie, then getting his hopes crushed would just be the final thing he needed to let go of everything. And if it wasn't... if he could count on someone else in his life for help...

Well. It might do as much as the meds.

*

_“As many times as you need, for as long as you need._

_I am sorry. I should have been there for you before. All I can do is be here for you now._

_Jethro”_


	7. sore must be the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artistic licence in that I probably combine side effects and effects of three different meds... But I wanted to use familiar symptoms.
> 
> There will be a longer break between chapters again after this one because it requires work and I am not doing too well at the moment. (Keep your fingers crossed I get more sick leave next week.)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who is reading this story, it helps knowing I'm not just shouting into the wind here!

For the first few days the medication felt like a very, very bad idea. But Tony had started them on the weekend for a reason, and he persevered. Even if that meant sitting curled up on the floor of his tiny bathroom, feeling nauseated but incapable to vomit, feeling like crying but incapable of producing any moisture off his eyes.

And still being depressed as fuck, of course, but at least the physical symptoms were taking his mind off his state of mind for a change.

He took the first pill Friday night after work. They had discussed it and the doctor felt evening would be a better time for him because they were hoping it would make him sleep better, instead of being fatigued during the day. Well, at least in a few days.

On Saturday he understood why both the psychologist and the doctor had reminded him to have gum available. Even constant drinking didn't seem to do much for the dryness of his mouth. The only problem was the nausea with which the gum was not helping.

It took a lot of mental discipline to take the third pill, Sunday evening. If he felt like this on Monday...

*

He took a cab to the gates, then walked through the base, not trusting himself to drive yet, even if he was technically allowed. He was also wearing a panama hat, and feeling like an idiot. But he couldn't risk photosensitivity making him feel even worse.

At least at work he only needed to sit down and (pretend to) read. His team here did not expect him to talk much anyway. 

For the first time in what felt like months he missed Naval Yard. Missed resting in Abby's lab after he'd first gone back to work after the plague. Missed the Gibbs who cared enough to send him down there. Missed the Abby who cared about him and fussed over him. 

But he'd lost that long before he left the States.

What he had now were daily apology emails from Gibbs, and two team members who looked at him funny when he made his fifth trip to the bathroom, because the nausea was too much, everything was too much, and he just needed to sit in the dark for a moment or five.

But he also noticed them noticing him drinking a bottle after bottle of water, so maybe they concluded he just needed to piss a lot.

After he sent them out for interviews in the afternoon, MacCreek came back with a bottle of some kind of sports drink which he deposited on Tony's table without comment.

Tony blinked, looking at the blue bottle. Electrolytes. Salt. His team had noticed, had not commented, but attempted to help anyway. Whether they thought it was the over drinking, or diarrhea, he didn't know, but the bottle sitting on his desk made him want to cry. (Again.)

It wasn't a half-eaten carton of Chinese. It wasn't a farting hippo. But it was a team caring about a team mate. 

He drank the whole bottle, and nodded his thanks when he caught MacCreek's eyes later.

*

The side effects lessened even faster than Tony dared to hope. The dry mouth thing was still irritating but at least the weather warranted constant drinking anyway. He also started to alternate gum with sugar free hard candy he could suck on more stealthily than chewing gum.

He slept more and fell asleep easier than ever. He woke up... feeling refreshed. The fatigue he'd feared didn't persist past the first week. And one day, reading over something he'd written down earlier he realised that his thoughts were clearer. That instead of slogging routine, he was having ideas again. Certified, out-of-the-box DiNozzo ideas.

Fuck, he had really been sleep walking this investigation, hadn't he?

“Okay here's what we're going to do. We're starting over.”

“We're , sir?” MacCreek asked in a voice louder than really warranted.

“We have gotten nowhere with this. So let's go back to the beginning and see what we've missed. And if that means we need to re-interview everyone? Then that's what we'll do.”

“I... yeah I guess that makes sense at this point,” Smiley said, looking defeated, and MacCreek nodded.

“Go home. Tomorrow morning, we start afresh, like I'd just arrived here and we were opening a new investigation.”


End file.
